


love me to death

by shinelikemillions91



Category: The 1975 (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, George is confused, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, They love each other, matty is a little fucked up, matty is a sloppy drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:15:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27588715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinelikemillions91/pseuds/shinelikemillions91
Summary: Matty needs George, needs him all the time, he feels dizzy when George isn’t around, which is how he’s ended up swaying, propped up against a lamppost outside of George’s new house, just watching. It’s nearing 1am, but the downstairs lights are on, and Matty supposes through his chemical addled brain that George is probably working, or maybe he’s fallen asleep with the TV on, all soft and drowsy with sleep. Matty aches. He aches for George, aches to be curled up in George’s arms, warm and content, but everything is so utterly fucked.(Matty has some feelings, and deals with them badly.)
Relationships: George Daniel/Matthew Healy
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	love me to death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QWERTYouAndMe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QWERTYouAndMe/gifts).



> This fic is inspired by the song 'Love Me To Death' by GARDEN. It's sick, go listen to it!
> 
> Just a reminder (though I would hope it's obvious in the year of our lord 2020) that this is fiction, I obviously do not believe that this is true, it never happened. I just really like writing dumbass scenarios with these two absolute idiots.
> 
> Dedicated to Daffodil because he completes me.
> 
> Kudos and comments are lovely, please please validate me :)
> 
> I love you all <3

Matty is a mess, and that’s putting it politely. Matty is utterly fucked is probably a more accurate description. He’s a staggering, stumbling wreck, he’s wet, cold, on a pretty horrendous comedown, combined with the several glasses of wine he downed at the last bar, and to top it all off, he can’t find his fucking phone or his wallet. The heavy, persistent rain is soaking through his denim jacket, and he’s pretty sure his knee is bleeding from when he staggered into the gutter and landed heavily, his knee scraping the pavement through the ripped hole in his jeans. 

All he can think of is George. He has to get to George. George will fix him. George always knows how to fix him, George can fix _anything_. 

Matty keeps having to remind himself that George doesn’t live with him anymore. He’s only been gone a few weeks, but Matty had felt sick when George brought it up out of the blue that he’d just bought his own fucking house. It felt silly to even bother to argue, why would George live with him if he could afford his own place? They were adults now, not kids, they needed to be independent, which was _fine_ , apart from the fact that Matty isn’t very good on his own. He never has been. He forgets to eat, forgets to go to bed, works until stupid hours, he needs someone there to tell him to look after himself, and that person has always been George, despite George being the youngest, he’s more mature than Matty could ever hope to be. 

Getting this fucked up hadn’t even been Matty’s intention when he’d left the house four hours ago. He’d gone out to score, he needed it, he needed something to dull the ache in his chest, left by George leaving him. It didn’t matter how much George sugar coated it, the end result was the same, George left him, and okay, they see each other practically every day, but it’s not the same. 

He’d done a line in the bathroom of some dingy bar, but the high hadn’t lasted, it only left him feeling irritable and snappy, and picking a fight with a bouncer when you’re off your face is pretty low on Matty’s list of sensible things to do when you’re a semi-famous rockstar with an albeit slightly rocky reputation to uphold. A punch to the jaw, several lines, and several bars later, and Matty can’t see straight, can’t think straight, and he thinks he might be crying, but it might just be the rain. He vaguely thinks, while staggering down the road that it’s no wonder George wanted out, no wonder George didn’t want to hang around him anymore than was needed. But Matty needs George, needs him all the time, he feels dizzy when George isn’t around, which is how he’s ended up swaying, propped up against a lamppost outside of George’s new house, just watching. It’s nearing 1am, but the downstairs lights are on, and Matty supposes through his chemical addled brain that George is probably working, or maybe he’s fallen asleep with the TV on, all soft and drowsy with sleep. Matty aches. He aches for George, aches to be curled up in George’s arms, warm and content, but everything is so utterly fucked.

A loud clap of thunder, and the driving rain is what propels Matty forwards towards George’s front door. Despite everything, despite needing George more than he needs oxygen at this point, he had never really intended for George to see him like this. The last thing he wants is for it to truly cement in George’s mind just how fucked up Matty is, but he’s shivering uncontrollably now, so cold and strung out that his hand shakes violently as he raises it to press the doorbell. 

He needs George. George will fix everything. 

The thirty second agonising wait before George answers the door is almost too much for Matty, he wrings his hands, chewing nervously on his bottom lip, praying that George hadn’t been asleep, and that Matty hadn’t unceremoniously woken him up. George is protective of his sleep, and gets cranky easily if he gets disturbed. Fortunately, George looks relatively fresh-faced when he opens the door, a little tired given the time of night, but not bleary with sleep which Matty had been fearing. A pair of baggy joggers rest on his slip hips, and the vest that clings to him defines his chest and arms perfectly, in a way that has Matty’s breath catching in his throat a little. However, George’s forehead creases in a frown when his eyes settle on Matty, and Matty’s stomach plummets as George rubs a hand over his tired eyes.

‘What the fuck happened to you? You do realise it’s nearly one in the morning, Matty?’ George says wearily. Matty shivers and nods. George’s voice is scratchy, and low, and it makes Matty’s stomach flip with something dangerous, but he doesn’t miss the obvious annoyance in George’s voice, he doesn’t even seem that worried, and before Matty has a chance to explain himself, George speaks up again.

‘Fuck, Matty, your leg!’

He sounds alarmed now, and Matty frowns, looking down; his knee looks fucked, and his jeans are covered in a dark mix mud and blood, and Matty supposes the coke and the wine have numbed any real sensation, but it’ll hurt like a motherfucker in the morning.

‘Fell over,’ Matty mumbles, his voice tremulous from shivering so hard. George shakes his head, extends a hand towards Matty, his fingers curling around Matty’s wrist as he pulls the smaller, shaking man inside.

George’s house is light and warm, he has art on the walls, but not pretentious art like Matty. It compliments the style of the house, and it’s the complete antithesis of Matty’s own house, which is dark, and odd, a little musty, and always cold, no matter how high Matty cranks the heating up.

‘Stay there… I’ll go get you a towel,’ George says quickly, dropping Matty’s wrist before turning and heading up the stairs, before Matty really has a chance to protest. And there George goes, once again, looking after him, just like always. He quickly kicks off his soaked trainers, aware that he’s dripping all over George’s clean wooden floor, and pulls off his water-logged denim jacket, placing it over the radiator which he also huddles by, shivering now in just a thin t-shirt, despite the warmth and welcoming aura of George’s house.

‘M’sorry,’ Matty mumbles when George reappears, a white fluffy towel in his arms, he passes it to Matty, and he gratefully accepts, wrapping it around himself. It’s warm from the airing cupboard, and Matty lets its warmth surround him like a hug, though what he’d really like would be for George to pull him into his arms so Matty can bury his face in his chest, and breathe in George’s smell, the smell that reminds him of a home that doesn’t exist anymore.

‘S’okay… come into the kitchen, gotta clean up your knee or it’ll get infected.’

Matty’s heart aches. George is so fucking kind, kinder than Matty could ever deserve. He follows George into the kitchen, ignoring the prickling sensation behind his eyes. The last thing he wants is to cry, steadfastly refuses to add to the pathetic image he’s already presenting as he sits down heavily at the kitchen table. The silence between them isn’t awkward, it could never be awkward after knowing each other for as long as they have, but it isn’t right either, and Matty contemplates filling it, but he knows he’ll just talk nonsense, so he stays quiet.

The click of the kettle boiling pulls Matty out of his reverie, and he looks over to see George making tea, two cups on the counter, and suddenly the stinging sensation is back behind his eyes. He watches as George puts one sugar in his own tea, two for Matty, but then he hesitates and adds another to Matty’s because he knows that Matty likes it really sweet, but always lies when people ask him how he takes his tea, because three sugars just sounds like too much fucking sugar. 

George sets both mugs down on the table before rummaging around in the cupboard and retrieving a tupperware box that appears to be full of medicine and bandages, and when did George become such an adult? He has a medicine box. Matty doesn’t have one of those, if he ever needs painkillers (of the legal variety), then he has to rummage around in all the drawers in the house in the hopes of finding a half empty strip of paracetamol somewhere.

‘Uhhh… you might wanna-- uhm. You might want to take your jeans off, they look pretty dirty.’ George stammers out the words, his eyes fixated on the gash in his leg, and Matty swallows, nodding as he quickly fiddles with his jeans, tugging them down and tossing them to the side. Matty looks down, realising that he really has done a number on his leg, there’s blood trickling all the way down to his socks, and George frowns as Matty settles back in his chair. Matty takes his tea in his hands, the heat making his fingers tingle, and he hadn’t really realised how freezing cold he was until the warmth starts to make its way through him, as he sips the perfectly sweet tea. No one makes tea quite like George.

‘Leg up.’

Matty obediently lifts his leg, settling it so it’s resting on George’s knee, and he can feel the warmth of George’s body through the material of his joggers; George always runs so warm, he’s like a radiator, and it’s one of the many things Matty loves about him, and _God_ Matty misses him, misses him like a phantom limb, even though he’s right here next to him.

‘Seriously, mate. What the fuck happened to you?’ George asks, his tone is soft, and tired as he pours some antiseptic on a cloth and starts to slowly clean Matty’s knee up. His touch is gentle, the hand that’s not cleaning him up is resting on the side of his leg, and it’s all Matty can do not to sigh quietly with contentment, even though it stings like anything as George cleans the blood and mud from his knee.

‘Got fucked up,’ Matty sighs, closing his eyes as George’s tender hands take care of him. ‘Fell over, landed in a gutter, lost my wallet, and my phone.’

‘You’ve got a bruise on your face, did you get into a fight?’ George is concerned now, and Matty opens his eyes to see George looking at him, worriedly.

‘Oh yeah, got punched by a bouncer.’

‘Of course you did,’ George laughs, but it’s a hollow sound, he sounds exasperated, and the smile on his face doesn’t reach his eyes. 

‘I’m sorry for just appearing on your doorstep,’ Matty mumbles, biting a bit of skin from his thumb, staring at the way George’s hands move on his skin. ‘I don’t really know why I didn’t just go home… I just-- I dunno. I’m just sorry, in case you were sleeping, you know?’

‘It’s okay, I was awake.’ George doesn’t look up when he speaks, he doesn’t elaborate on what he was doing either, he just continues his task of cleaning Matty’s knee up, and when he thinks he’s done a sufficient job, he applies a plaster on top, the wound not nearly as serious as it had first appeared, now that all the blood has been cleared up.

‘As good as new,’ George announces, plastering another fake smile on his face, gently lowering Matty’s leg to the ground as he gets up to go over to the freezer. Matty’s about to berate him, saying that this isn’t really the time for ice cream, when George turns around with an ice pack, and Matty’s heart aches again.

‘For your face,’ George explains softly, and Matty reaches out to take it from George, but instead, George gently presses the ice pack against Matty’s increasingly sore jaw. He holds it there, and Matty holds his eye; there’s a beat between them that makes goosebumps rise on Matty’s skin, despite the fact that he’s warmed up now, aided by the tea, and the towel, and George’s touch. Matty raises his hand, and slowly covers George’s with his own, closing his eyes, simply letting their hands rest. He doesn’t want to look at George, he doesn’t want to ruin this small moment of solace in an otherwise completely disastrous evening, so he keeps his eyes shut, and just tries to breathe. 

Images come into his mind then, unbidden and unwanted. That night. George’s hands all over his skin, the noise ripped from George’s throat when he was buried so deep inside Matty that it felt like they were one entity, the way Matty had never felt as complete as he had when George held him afterwards, both trembling, in a stunned silence, shaken to the core by the gravity of what they’d just done. 

Matty stands slowly so he’s eyelevel with George now, and the air is so still that Matty can hear George’s slightly laboured breathing. It could be so easy, he could lean in, he could lean in and connect their lips, kiss George like he’s been wanting to since that night two months ago, in that hotel room in Dallas, both high as kites, and drunk on one too many tequila slammers.

Matty leans in at the same time as George utters his name, his lips brushing against George’s ever so softly. Matty’s heart ricochets around his ribs, and for a second he thinks that George is going to kiss back, but he doesn’t. He pulls away, lowering the ice pack from Matty’s face, and Matty’s heart sinks, tears pricking behind his eyes for the umpteenth time that evening.

‘George,’ Matty mumbles, chewing on his bottom lip. George’s face is unreadable, but then he shakes his head, and Matty feels sick, like all the booze he’d consumed throughout the evening is threatening to make a second appearance.

‘You know we can’t,’ George sighs, rubbing his face.

‘Why can’t we?’ Matty asks, there’s a crack in his voice, and the tears are coming now, trickling down his face. 

‘Why can’t we, George? I need you, you know I need you. Please, George.’ He sounds pathetic, but he can’t stop himself, and George is looking at him with pity on his face.

‘Please don’t look at me like that, George.’ His voice is thick with tears now, and the back of his throat is burning from the effort of stopping himself from sobbing. ‘Please, George. I love you, I love you so much, please don’t look at me like that.’ Pity is worse than anger, pity is worse than disgust. Matty can’t fucking stand it. 

Because the sad truth of the matter is that Matty has loved George for as far back as he can remember. He’d always known it deep down, but he’d been too fucking scared to it admit it, then one day, he’d walked in on George mixing a track, and George had spun round in his chair, a soft smile on his face, and Matty just knew. The realisation, the abject obviousness hit him all at once. The sky is blue, the Pope is Catholic, and Matty loves George. He’d die for George in a heartbeat, follow him to the ends of the earth if he asked, which George wouldn’t of course, he’s too fucking selfless for that. George is his fucking guardian angel, and Matty has systemically fucked it up, just like he fucks up everything else he touches. He fucked it up in that hotel room in Dallas, both of them as high as kites, and drunk on one too many tequila slammers.

‘I love you too,’ George says quietly, but Matty just shakes his head, a sob escaping his lips now. He knows George loves him, but he doesn’t love him like _that_. George doesn’t love him in the way he needs him to, and who can blame him, really? 

‘No you _don’t_. You don’t love me, not like that. Why don’t you? Why don’t you love me like I need you to, George?’ Matty’s voice shakes, and George’s face creases up, he opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but no words come out.

‘Please, George,’ Matty whimpers, and before he knows what he’s doing, he sinks down to his knees, ignoring the burst of pain from his injured knee, the towel falling from around his shoulders when he presses his face into George’s warm stomach, his hands gripping at George’s thighs. He just wants to touch George, his chemically imbalanced mind coming to the conclusion that if he can make George feel good, then maybe he’ll change his mind. His tears are all but dried up as he pushes George’s vest up, pressing his mouth to the soft, smooth skin of George’s toned stomach, he breathes George in, and the heady scent of him makes Matty feel almost carnal, and he’s so caught up in the sensation that he doesn’t catch George talking to him.

‘Matty, fucking stop!’ George’s loud voice, cuts through Matty’s hazy mind, and he freezes, looking up at George from his position on the floor. ‘I’m not--’ George cuts himself off, sighing. ‘You know I’m not-- you can’t just… fuck, please just get up off the fucking floor, okay?’

‘Wanna make you feel good,’ Matty breathes, his mouth inches away from George’s crotch, and Matty swears he can see George’s cock twitch from the confines of his joggers, the material leaving virtually nothing to the imagination. ‘C’mon, George, let me make you feel good like I did that night.’

‘Matty, stop,’ George snaps again, and he looks angry this time. ‘That night was a mistake, you know it was.’

Matty gets to his feet then, astounded that he’s gone from crying, to horny, to angry in the space of five minutes, but he really is angry, spittingly angry at George for getting in his head like this, making him feel so tumultuous.

‘That’s not what you said when I had your cock in my mouth last time, George,’ he spits, his own stomach twisting at the words, because he remembers how heavy George’s cock had felt against his tongue, the musky taste of him. ‘I don’t remember you complaining for one fucking second when you had your cock in my arse.’

George at least has the good grace to look embarrassed now, he can’t meet Matty’s eye, and Matty is about to speak again, spit more accusations at George, when George speaks up.

‘I’m not— I’m not into blokes… we’re mates, we can’t do shit like that, okay? Mates don’t fucking do shit like that! We were drunk, and it didn’t mean anything.’

_It didn’t mean anything._

And Matty can’t help but think that nothing George could have said right then could be further from the truth.

**

_They’re in Dallas, and they’ve just got off stage when Matty receives a phone call from Jamie back in the UK to let them know that they’d been nominated for several Brit Awards. This of course results in many celebratory drinks, and a celebratory spliff or three. At some point in the evening, Matty completely loses sight of Adam, and Ross and John have mysteriously disappeared, leaving him and George together, and that is perfectly alright with Matty. Matty is always at his happiest when he’s with George, especially when they’re high, and drunk, and buzzed with the feeling of finally getting some real recognition for all the work they’ve put into their music over the years._

_Matty picks up a cheap bottle of wine from a 7/11 on the way back to the hotel, and now he and George are collapsed on Matty’s hotel bed, slumped against the headboard, and giggling over absolutely nothing. When Matty mostly gets his breath back, he grins over at George, his heart clenching in his chest when he sees George grinning right back at him, cheeks flushed, and eyes squinting a little, like he can’t quite focus on Matty’s face._

_‘M’so fucking proud of us,’ Matty murmurs, blinking against the haze of alcohol, leaning in a little bit to rest his forehead against George’s. ‘So fucking proud of you.’_

_George’s cheeks turn an endearing shade of pink under the dimmed hotel room lights, and Matty’s stomach does somersaults, because his best friend is beautiful, inside and out, George is beautiful. He’s never wanted to kiss someone so badly in his entire fucking life, he wants this more than he’s ever wanted success, or girls, or money, or anything else._

_‘Proud of all of us,’ George echoes. ‘Group effort. The 1975 is the four of us, and we’ve done it, we’ve made it, Matty.’ His voice is low, and Matty can feel his warm wine-soaked breath ghosting against his own lips, and he shivers. Matty blames the alcohol on why George isn’t pulling away, and the fact that they’re both pretty blasted should be warning enough to Matty, but he doesn’t care, it doesn’t stop him from leaning in, closing the gap between them, and pressing his lips gently to George’s. They both stay there like that, neither moving to deepen the kiss, but neither of them moving to pull away either._

_‘What are you doing?’ George breathes, a little slurred against Matty’s lips, and the air is thick with tension, and Matty wants to reply that he’s doing something that he’s wanted to do since he was roughly seventeen years old, but he doesn’t, he stays quiet in favour of cupping George’s slightly stubbly jaw, and deepening the kiss. He’ll kiss George until George tells him to stop, and not a second before, because this is all he wants, and he’d be stupid to stop when George isn’t giving him any reason to do so._

_When George opens his mouth, letting Matty slip his tongue into his warm, wet mouth, Matty thinks his soul leaves his body for a second, because never has a kiss evoked such a visceral reaction in him before. He can feel it throughout his entire body, and George still isn’t pulling away, so Matty tugs him closer, fists the hand that’s not cupping George’s face in his shirt, the material pulling under Matty’s eager, nimble fingers._

_‘Matty, stop,’ George eventually gasps out, pulling away from his grip, and Matty’s stomach sinks. He runs a trembling hand through his messy hair, and tries his best to pretend that the kiss hasn’t affected him as much as it has; when in reality, Matty’s head is swimming, and it’s not from the weed and the booze this time, he’s intoxicated by George, the taste and feel of George, and he needs more, could cry for want of it._

_They stare at each other for what feels like eons, and Matty prays to any deity that ever may have existed that George will just give in, even if just for one night, because now Matty’s had even the most fleeting taste of George’s lips, he needs more, more more. And in the end, they both move at the same time, crashing together, mouths meeting almost violently, and Matty doesn’t have time to question anything anymore, because George’s tongue is in his mouth, and George’s hands are fisted in the collar of his shirt, and Matty’s heart is beating so hard he swears it’s going to burst out of his rib cage._

_‘Fuck, Matty. What are we doing?’ George pants, pulling away again, and Matty just wants to cry in frustration. He shuffles forwards so he’s resting in George’s lap, hands coming up to touch George’s face. George looks conflicted, his face screwed up like he’s concentrating._

_‘M’not gay,’ George mumbles eventually, managing to hold Matty’s eye, even though it looks like he wants to look away._

_‘Me neither,’ Matty says thickly, but then, in a contradictory fashion, buries his face in George’s neck, breathing him in, lips moving over soft, flushed skin. Matty’s not lying, he isn’t gay, he knows that, he also knows that George is completely in his own league. This has nothing to do with sexuality, and everything to do with the fact that George is everything to him, and that inescapable need to be close to him feels like it’s eating Matty alive, has been eating him alive for years, and now here they are._

_‘You can pretend I’m a girl,’ Matty utters against George’s neck, close to his ear, and Matty doesn’t miss the way George shudders underneath him. Matty’s cock twitches in his jeans at the way his words quite obviously have an effect on George, so he continues, the wine and the tequila having loosened his lips more than usual._

_‘You know I’m pretty like a girl,’ he breathes, nipping at George’s earlobe. ‘Let me make you feel good, George. Wanna make you feel so fucking good. Make you feel good like girls do, yeah?’_

_George makes a noise then that shoots straight to Matty’s cock, and Matty bites down on George’s hammering pulse, grinding down instinctively._

_‘Fuck, George. You’re hard,’ Matty moans, pulling away from George’s neck, dragging his fingers over the wet, reddened skin left by his mouth._

_‘Shut up,’ George pants, pulling Matty closer. ‘For once in your life, shut up, Matthew.’_

_George doesn’t give Matty a chance to reply, because he’s kissing him again, sliding his large, warm hands up the back of Matty’s shirt, and Matty thinks he’s about to catch fire because it appears that George wants this as much as he does, judging by the desperation at which George is touching him. Matty can feel him everywhere, feel the warmth of him everywhere, and if Matty didn’t feel drunk before, he certainly does now._

_Matty doesn’t profess to know much, but he does know that if he doesn’t get his mouth on George soon then he’s going to die, so he pulls away from George’s mouth, breathing heavily as he moves his way down George’s body. He pushes George’s shirt up, and wastes no time burying his face in the soft skin there. George is so warm, his skin is smooth, and he smells like home, even though they’re thousands of miles away from London, but George has always been the physical embodiment of home to Matty, no matter where they are in the world._

_A shiver runs through Matty’s entire body when George slides his hands into his hair, he moans and drags his lips over George’s soft skin until he reaches the waistband of George’s jeans. Pausing, Matty looks up at George, he takes in George’s dark eyes, his pink bitten lips, and the flush that’s slowly spreading up his neck. George is the most beautiful thing Matty has ever seen in his entire life. Matty’s fingers scrabble with George’s belt buckle, and he can see the outline of George’s hard cock through his jeans. It makes his stomach flip because George is hard. George is hard for him, and this has happened in so many fantasies, but he never thought for one second that this would actually ever become a reality._

_There’s so much Matty wants to say, but it’s absolutely the wrong time to do so, and he doesn’t want to ruin this delicate balance, terrified that if he says too much, it’ll scare George away, so he stays quiet, slowly unzipping George’s jeans, and tugging them down, along with his boxers, so that George’s cock hits his stomach heavily. Matty squeezes his own cock through his jeans, because George is big, bigger than Matty’s ever seen before, and he wants his mouth stretched out around George’s cock so badly that his mouth almost waters for it._

_‘Oh fuck, your cock-- fuck--,’ Matty stammers around a moan, wasting no time in leaning down and licking at the leaking tip of George’s cock, effectively silencing anything that George could have wanted to say, because a loud, choked off groan spills from George’s lips, and Matty feels genuinely proud at that. Matty isn’t the most experienced at sucking cock, but he knows enough, and he knows what he likes when he’s on the receiving end of a blowjob, so he wraps a fist around George, running his tongue over the pulsing vein on the underside as George grunts above him._

_‘Matty, Jesus,’ George hisses, and Matty takes this as his cue to swallow George’s cock as best he can, given how fucking thick George is, and how out of practise Matty is, there’s no way Matty can take him all in. George’s hand fists in his hair, and Matty groans low around his mouthful, as he slowly bobs his head, George is so heavy on his tongue, and his mouth is stretched so wide, and Matty just knows he’s going to get off to this moment for years to come. He eventually pulls away from George’s cock with a wet pop, and the whine that George lets out almost makes Matty want to giggle._

_‘Why did you stop?’ George breathes, and Matty shakes his head, slowly crawling towards him. He stopped because he doesn’t want George to come like this, he wants George to fuck him, but he can’t seem to get the words out, and the irony of him being rendered speechless by George isn’t lost on him for a single second._

_George drags Matty down by his shirt collar, then, taking the smaller man by surprise as George fits their mouths together and deftly rolls them over so that Matty is splayed out beneath him on the plush hotel room bed, George kicking his jeans and boxers off completely as he does so. Matty gazes up at George in abject adoration, at his strength, and how easily he manoeuvred him onto his back; he tugs desperately at George’s t-shirt._

_‘Off, take it off,’ Matty breathes, and George complies, tossing it to join the rest of his crumpled clothes on the floor. Matty’s hands come up immediately to drag slowly down George’s chest, fingers brushing over his nipples, and causing him to hiss, and Matty is so hard he can feel his cock leaking inside his boxers. George is naked above him now, and Matty is completely in awe at his beautiful, beautiful best friend. He goes to speak, but George gets there first._

_‘Have— ah— fuck. Have you done this before?’ George gasps out as Matty moves a hand down to swipe his thumb over the head of George’s wet, leaking cock._

_Matty nods, biting his bottom lip. He can tell that George wants to ask more questions, but he doesn’t, he just leans down and captures Matty’s lips once more. Matty wants to be tender and take his time, map George’s body with his lips and tongue, just in case this is it, in case they never get to do this again, but everything is too frantic, his hand still moving erratically on George’s cock while he licks into the younger man’s mouth, moaning loudly._

_‘Fuck me,’ Matty whispers, against George’s lips. ‘Want you to fuck me, George.’_

_Matty feels George freeze, lips hovering against Matty’s while his limbs tremble at holding himself up. Matty can feel the nervous energy coming off him in waves, and he so badly wants to calm George’s nerves, but he finds that he still doesn’t have the words. He suddenly feels incredibly sober as he waits for George’s reaction._

_‘We--we haven’t got any-’ George falters, but Matty hushes him with an uncharacteristically gentle kiss. Matty is well aware that this is monumental, what they’re about to do. There will be no turning back after this, and Matty keeps waiting for George to back out, for the gravity of the situation to crash down on him, but with every passing minute it seems that George may want this just as much as Matty does._

_‘There’s stuff in my suitcase,’ Matty murmurs, gently, brushing a stray strand of hair behind George’s ear._

_George climbs off Matty quickly, and Matty notes that George is a little unsteady on his feet as he rummages around in Matty’s case. Matty starts to unbutton his shirt, his own fingers shaking a little with nerves and excitement, and George is still rooting through Matty’s belongings by the time Matty is completely undressed. He settles back, propping himself up on his elbows, admiring the taut lines of George’s body, the bright ink on his skin, and Matty doesn’t think there’s anything about George that he doesn’t love, he loves George wholly, completely._

_‘Fucking finally,’ George mutters, standing up, with the half used tube of lube clutched in his hand, he turns around, and when his eyes move over Matty’s naked body, Matty flushes. He knows what he must look like, hard, messy hair, still a little drunk, and George’s gaze is so dark, that he knows the flush on his face deepens, he feels hot all over. They’ve seen each other naked so many times, but not like this, never like this before._

_‘Matty,’ George murmurs, before he shoves Matty down hard into the mattress, kissing him hungrily, and it’s like Matty is having an out of body experience as George opens him up with surprisingly skilled fingers. Two of George’s fingers feel impossibly big inside him, and he writhes and gasps, pushing back against George’s hand desperately. George’s fingers feel so utterly perfect that Matty completely forgets that this is the first time they’ve done this, it feels so good, so earth-shatteringly good to be full of George’s fingers that he completely forgets anything that isn’t George’s name, it’s the only thing he knows. George is the only thing he knows._

_George fucks Matty reverently at first, like he’s made of glass, holding onto him tightly like Matty will float away if he doesn’t. George has his face buried in Matty’s neck, Matty’s legs loosely looped around his waist, but Matty soon tires of this, begs for more, whines and pleads, digs his heels into George’s spine, wanting George closer, closer, closer. He wants George to hold onto him like this forever, and he wonders, fleetingly, if George is feeling everything as intensely as he is. They’re so in tune with each other, their bodies moving in perfect synchronicity, and Matty’s pleas for ‘more’ and ‘harder’ don’t fall on deaf ears. George fucks him harder, gives him more, gives Matty absolutely everything he’s ever needed, and more. George fucks him so hard that the bed starts to creak, and Matty’s cries ring out loudly in the quiet hotel room. Matty drags his nails down George’s back, and the noise George makes sends shivers through Matty’s trembling body. When George nails that spot inside him, Matty all but arches off the bed, his head thrown back, and nothing has ever felt this good; no girl, no show, no drug has ever made Matty feel as good as George does._

_At some point, Matty gets a hand between them, pumping his cock roughly, with no finesse until he comes with a muffled shout, face buried in George’s neck as he spills thickly between their conjoined bodies. George follows less than a minute later, filling Matty up, groaning weakly as Matty mutters filth into his ear that he hopes George will remember long after this night is over._

_‘Yeah, George. Just like that. Can feel you so fucking deep inside me George. Fuck. Come for me, baby. Come for me.’_

_They collapse down next to each other, neither speaking though there’s multitudes that Matty wants to say. Three words he wants to utter. He waits until he’s sure George is asleep, whispers them into the darkness._

_When they wake the following morning, tangled up together in the messy sheets, they don’t talk about what happened._

_They don’t talk about it._

**

George’s spare bedroom is cold and impersonal, nothing like the rest of the house, and Matty shudders as he strips himself of his damp boxers, shirt and socks, hastily pulling on the clean boxers and t-shirt that George had pushed into his arms on his way to bed. After Matty’s confession, and minor breakdown in the kitchen, Matty had awkwardly suggested that he get a cab home, sheepishly asking George if he could borrow some money due to his lost wallet, but George, like the saint he is, had just told Matty he could stay the night, though his voice had sounded strained and angry. It made Matty’s heart ache. 

The weather is still brutal, rain lashing against the windows as Matty climbs under the chilly covers, curling up in the middle of the double bed that feels far too big, far too empty. If this scenario had happened prior to that night in Dallas, Matty wouldn't have thought twice about climbing into bed with George, teasingly asking him if he can be the little spoon, but he can’t do that anymore. It would seem that their friendship is irreparably damaged, and for what? A drunken fuck that apparently meant nothing to George anyway.

Matty lets George’s smell overwhelm him, he’s wearing George’s clothes, wrapped in George’s sheets, and if Matty closes his eyes, it’s almost like George is there. Only he’s not, he’s in the next room, in his own bed, and as far as Matty’s concerned in his emotional state, George might as well be on another fucking planet. He’s so close, and Matty misses him so fucking much that he has to phsically restrain himself from getting out of bed, crawling into George’s bed, and begging for his forgiveness.

Because Matty is sorry, well and truly sorry from the bottom of his sad, broken heart. Absolutely nothing in the world is more important to Matty than his friendship with George, nothing, not even the night they had spent together, and he knows he’d give up everything he owns, if he meant that he and George could go back to normal.

Tears prick at the corners of Matty’s eyes again, and he knows it’s the booze and the comedown that’s making him feel this awful, but it’s this situation with George that gave him the compulsion to go out and get fucked up in the first place. He hastily wipes the tears from his face, but it’s futile, more tears follow, and soon he’s sobbing, pressing his face into George’s freshly laundered sheets to stifle the noise. 

Matty doesn’t know how long he cries for. He cries for over ten years of friendship, ruined by one drunken, stupid night, he cries for that look of pity on George’s face when Matty bared his soul earlier that evening, he cries for the tenderness of George’s touch, for his compassionate, beautiful best friend--

‘Matty?’

Matty starts, and he’s so surprised by the sound of George’s voice coming from the doorway that he stops crying almost immediately, his heart thudding hard in his chest, because George must have heard him crying, even though he’d been trying his utmost to muffle the sounds.

‘Are-- are you okay?’ George asks, he’s whispering, though he has no need to, but it feels fitting for the moment. The rest of the house is silent. Matty rolls over to face the door, and he can just about see George silhouetted there; he contemplates lying to George, though it’s blatantly obvious that he is _not_ okay, and George knows that really.

‘No, George,’ Matty says quietly. ‘I’m not okay, I’m really fucking far from okay.’

George doesn’t respond, he just pads slowly towards the bed, and slips underneath the covers. Matty can feel the warmth emanating from him immediately, and everything in him is screaming for him to inch forward, bury his face in George’s chest, but he stays still, waits for George to say, or do something first.

‘C’mere,’ he finally whispers, and Matty goes willingly, wrapping his arms around George’s waist, and pressing his face into George’s warm, smooth chest. George wraps his arms around Matty, and Matty simply melts into him, absorbing his warmth and savouring the smell of his skin, and he only notices he’s crying when George starts to soothe him quietly.

‘It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Matty,’ he whispers while Matty squeezes his eyes shut, wills the tears to stop because he knows he’s making George’s chest wet, and it’s so embarrassing, even though George has held him when he’s cried countless times during their friendship, especially during the last few years; George has seen him in a worse state than this.

‘I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, George,’ he chokes out, unsure really what he’s apologising for. He’s fucked up so much recently, so maybe he’s apologising for all of it. For that night in Dallas, for getting so fucked up, for being flighty and erratic, for every single time his behaviour has scared George, and every single time he’s relied on George to put him back together again. 

‘Look at me,’ George says softly, and Matty blinks, pulling his face away from George’s chest so he can look up at him in the dim room.

‘I’m sorry too--’ Matty goes to interject, but George shakes his head, his warm hands cupping the back of Matty’s neck so that Matty has no choice but to hold George’s eye while he talks. ‘I really am, I’m sorry for what I said earlier. It didn’t-- fuck-- it didn’t mean nothing. That night in Dallas. It didn’t mean nothing to me, Matty. You have to know that, right?’

Matty blinks slowly, and he lets out a low, shaky breath as he tries to process what George has just said. He struggles for words, and hopes that George is going to clarify what he really means.

‘That night was amazing,’ George continues when Matty doesn’t speak for a few moments. ‘I’ve thought about it so much… but it also scared the shit out of me, Matty. You’re my best friend, and we did this fucking incredible thing… and I’m not gay, I still like girls, not really sure I like guys if I’m being really honest… but— but it felt right to be with you like that, and I didn’t know what to do with that. I still don’t.’

Matty lifts a hand up now to cup the side of George’s face while he speaks, in what he hopes is comforting, even though his fingers are trembling against George’s skin.

‘I had to get away from you, I didn’t trust myself around you after that night. Living with you felt like too much… and in not wanting to fuck up my friendship with you, I did just that, and I’m so fucking sorry.’ 

George’s voice is shaking, and he turns his face to press a kiss against the palm of Matty’s hand. And Matty is crying once more, but out of sheer relief this time. 

‘I’ve missed you so much,’ Matty whispers through his tears. ‘I know I see you most days, but it’s not the same without you there. I thought you hated me, I really did, and the only way I could cope with that was to get so monumentally fucked up that I couldn’t feel anything… but it didn’t fucking work, and I ended up back here anyway. I— I need you, George. I’ve always fucking needed you. I’m not very good at anything when you’re not around.’

‘I missed you too,’ George admits, and he leans in, resting his forehead against Matty’s, so close that Matty can smell his toothpaste fresh breath. ‘Missed tripping over your shoes, missed cooking for you… missed you making my coffee in the mornings—‘

Matty cuts him off with a kiss, and this time George kisses back immediately, no hesitation as they melt into each other. Matty’s fingers tangle in George’s messy hair, and George’s hands run slowly up the back of his shirt.

‘We’ll figure this out together,’ Matty says softly when they break apart, and George nods, breathing heavily, gathering Matty into his chest once again. 

They don’t speak again that night, they just hold each other, and the next morning, Matty wakes George up with a cup of coffee like old times. They share shy smiles, and when George takes his hand, Matty finally feels like he can breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> If you didn't know by now, I'm 'healybedford' on Tumblr, come say hi <3


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